The Boy Who Had Everything
by WindyWords123
Summary: AU in which Matthew is lavished with attention, while Alfred is ignored. Some strong language. Neglective France and England. From the kink meme.
1. Chapter 1

_Based on a prompt from the kink meme, which basically requested a story in which Alfred was ignored and Matthew favored._

Nothing he did was ever _enough._

He could make it to the moon in a homemade rocket and discover a whole new continent, and it still wouldn't matter because he wasn't _Matthew_.

Perfect, wonderful, amazing Matthew, who was a straight-A student, who was a good listener, who everyone noticed even if he did nothing at all. Who was everything Alfred was not.

And oh, they might have been identical, but no one could mistake one for the other – Matthew had glasses that brought out the violet in his eyes, Matthew grew his hair long, like their papa, Matthew hadn't ever experimented with hair dye and accidentally changed the shade permanently, and more importantly, Matthew could keep his mouth shut. Alfred just couldn't _help_ himself, because there were so many amazing things in the world, and if you talked constantly at least, then, they would have to catch a word or two, have to pay attention if only to tell you to shut up, have to _care_ for half an instant and that was all he wanted, really.

Wanted someone to _care_ about his (state fair winning!) science project just as much as the article Matthew got published in the newspaper. Wanted someone to remember July 1st was his birthday, too, wanted to get just as many presents (_Oh I'm sorry Alfred, it's just you've been so loud and demanding; good things come to those that wait. Like our little Mathieu!)_ And the next year it had been: (_Oh I'm sorry Alfred, but you just didn't tell us what you wanted, and you know it's so much easier to buy for Matthew; he'll read anything!) _And then he'd laugh, and that laugh, that laugh echoed in his dreams, in his _nightmares_ –

And so this was all there was:

Yelling screaming _demanding_ and the tantrums never helped, and always Matthew helped him up off the floor and was always so fucking _nice_, so nice you couldn't even hate him, so nice so everything and really, it made sense, that they would always like him better and none of it ever _helped_ so he didn't know why he didn't just _stop_ –

But he couldn't.

Couldn't stop the fights, the bruises, couldn't stop almost wishing it was abuse because it would prove, then, that they _noticed_. He couldn't stop, because it was only in the heat of a fight with an opponent that didn't _dare_ take their eyes off him that he had any control at all.

It was only with them punching kicking _beating_ (paying attention, he existed, wasn't just inferior invisible _in-fucking-sane_, because only crazy people could _like_ this) him, it was only then that he smiled.

And maybe his gums were bloody and his teeth were crooked, but hey.

This pain, this right here?

This was something Matthew would never have.

And, well, when you had what the boy who had everything didn't have –

_(then, just then, you had nothing at all.)_


	2. Chapter 2

He moves out on July 4th, three days after his eighteenth birthday. He would've moved out three days earlier, but this, this is when old sweaters from aunts and uncles, sloppy handmade cards from "friends" who couldn't be bothered to check the date, tattered clothing and games missing a die or two, this is when they always _(finally)_ arrived. Sometimes, before, he would pretend that the fireworks other houses set off (not them, never them; for all they are American his papa is French and his father is English, and Matthew is Matthew, somehow not quite American. Quieter, perhaps) were for him, and he would think, this is mine, this is mine, this is mine, but he wouldn't really believe it, not really, _couldn't_ force himself because it wasn't _true_.

He does not look back. He is tempted, certainly, perhaps to thumb his nose, to make a rude gesture, to force them to _realize_ just how much he always _hurt_, but it would not work and it's cleaner, somehow, not to look back. They can't make him stay. They can't do anything, now. He never has to see them again.

_(And it hurts, a little, that even now they won't even _notice_, that even now he means nothing to them, that in all this time they never once_ cared_)_

But he's leaving, now. Leaving, forever. Not looking back.

The relief is unexpected.

He joins the army; it seems the sensible solution for a boy like him. He's never really been much good at anything, beyond science and athletics, and at least here he'll be doing something. Perhaps he'll even be useful. Besides, Francis and Arthur _(not his parents, not anymore_ had they known _(had they cared)_, would've probably disapproved. So that's worth something, at least.

He enjoys the military. True, the drill sergeants treat him like the scum on the bottom of their shoes, but that is simply their job; there's no malice behind it. And at least they care enough to yell if he doesn't do things right. His squadron is something like nice; they don't ignore him, at least, although he doubts they really like him, either.

Almost a year has passed, and he thinks of his birthday only fleetingly. Birthdays, still, are a sign of days long past, and there is no point at all in looking back. It's notable more because it's his first year in the army than because it's another year in his life.

And so by the time his birthday rolls around – his _real_ one, July 1st – he isn't even really thinking about it at all, spares it only one brief thought and forgets the matter entirely until lunch.

Because during lunch, though Alfred takes his accustomed spot, Ivan most certainly does not.

Ivan Braginski is from Russia. He is large, and intimidating, and he lurks as near the back as he can manage and he never says a word. The rumors about him are idle, for of course he rarely changes, and so there is only the occasionally whispered tales of his murders, of his insanity. Alfred has never thought much about him. He could've been a rival, perhaps, if things had been different, but as it stands Ivan is unprovokable and Alfred ignores him.

But usually he sits alone.

Today he slides into the seat beside Alfred, and, quite shyly, slides a sandwich of some sort in front of him. Alfred merely glances at him, confused.

"I..." Ivan's voice is surprisingly childish, surprisingly high-pitched. "I. Heard it was your birthday, and, well, I just." He looks down suddenly. "I didn't. Umm. Sorry."

Alfred just breathes for a moment. He can't quite _think_.

Because... he's never told anyone what his birthday was, except long, long ago, and it isn't even really July 1st anymore. Everything is _wrong_ and somehow a man he's never even talked to, a man he's never spared the least thought, somehow, _somehow_ he knows Alfred's birthday and the world is too large and too small at the same time and he can't.

"...How?" He breathes, the cafeteria loud beyond the absolute still chaos of his thoughts. "How did you..."

Ivan blushes, white skin going brilliant red. "I... I have a friend, from Estonia, and he. Umm. He hacks, and I was just, well, you don't really talk to anyone that much, and so I. I thought it'd be nice to get you something? But then it was too late and so I couldn't but I felt bad so..."

Alfred can't himself from staring, staring at this wonderful human being who, somehow, impossibly, cares about him. _He cares enough to..._ and he can barely even think it, because maybe it's just a sandwich but this is the only person who has _ever_ given him a gift on his birthday.

"I... Thank you. Thank you, Ivan. Thank you."

And Ivan fidgets and Alfred stares and the other troops point and whistle and it doesn't matter at all.

(Later Ivan will tell him it's peanut butter, and Alfred will say he's allergic, and the conversation – such as it is – will stall, but that's alright. Because it's his birthday, change be damned, and nothing is wrong with the world, not today.)

(And years after, when the military is but a distant dream and they can barely imagine the world without each other, any more, Alfred will give Ivan a peanut butter sandwich, epipen in hand, and they will kiss and laugh and reminisce, Alfred wearing the antique bomber jacket Ivan bought him for their first anniversary, Ivan wearing the slightly lopsided pink scarf Alfred knitted him that Christmas.)

Alfred has a husband and a house and a whole universe. Maybe, just maybe, he's someone after all.

_Okay so I really have no idea how the military actually works, and I really didn't feel like research. There are multiple areas that are potentially way, way, off. I'm sorry._

_And yay for unexpected second chapters! Hope you all enjoy it!_


End file.
